The Poetry Of Staying Alive:
a wanderer’s fantasy
Brian Avey
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Brian Avey
Opera House Apartments, Hanford
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
SONGS OF SOLITUDE AND SPIRIT
Under a Winter Sky
A Song of Ancient Wood
Meeting the New Year
Shadow Play
I Wait
Gratitude At Least
A Song of Winter Silence
A Little Evensong
Evening Meditation
Easter Bunny! (I'm not in a hurry!)
A God of My Understanding
Love in the Wilderness
SONGS SUNG WHILE TRAVELING
Presence
Economy
Waiting For Trains
What's the point?
Human Family in Transit
Whitefish Sunset
Sounding Poetry
Arrival at the Church in Qingquan
Five Desperate Haiku
Five Optimistic Haiku
Five Adventurous Haiku
More haiku from the Tejon Pass
STREET HAIKU
SONGS OF DESPAIR, CONFUSION AND ESCAPE
Endless Loop
Dream Journal
Time and Distance
Parting of a Loved One
Lost River
Still in Business?
Take Me Back
Seeing Through the Distraction
The Onslaught of Night
Where is the Innocence?
SONGS OF LOVE AND DESIRE
Two Poems in Japanese (tanka) Style
An Economy of Shadows
With Wind, Birds and Angels
SONGS I SANG AT THE MONASTERY
At Times
Five haiku - One morning
Something More
Another Haiku
TRANSLATIONS FROM THE JAPANESE
LIFE AT A SLOWER PACE
The Old Fence Post
Untitled
INTRODUCTION
I am not a poet, except perhaps in the sense that I revel in imagery, sound and impressions. While growing up, I spent hours huddled in our garage, near a book shelf that contained old books – many of them poetry. Tennyson, Byron, Poe, Riley, Longfellow, and many more. My grandmother was an avid reader and lover of classic poetry, and it was thanks to her that this treasure was there awaiting re-discovery by a shy and introverted young boy.
As with music, in which discipline I am better equipped than in poetry, my activity as a “poet” is the result of a personal need to express my inner and outer worlds using some form of imagery and sound. I’ll risk quoting a real poet in order to help put into words my motivation for collecting this anthology.
My aspirations
are all here. My poetry
will very likely
die with me, and that’s okay.
It’s just my way of getting
through another day,
of trying to be alive
as often as I
can be. I don’t know the way.
I grope. I stumble. I fall.
(Sam Hamill, Measured by Stone, Curbstone Press, 2007, pg. 38)
I write poetry to feel alive. Journaling doesn’t work for me, and I tend to implode when there is no outlet for expression. Hence, the title of this anthology, “The Poetry of Staying Alive”. It’s about staying present, and remaining in touch with the heart while at the same time reaching out and inviting the reader to share, where appropriate, the circumstances and feelings that resonate within these pages.
It is with no other expectation than to sing a ballad of life as I have lived it – and continue living it today – that I present this revealing and sometimes embarrassing work to the reader. Let’s walk together then, even if only for a short distance.
SONGS OF SOLITUDE AND SPIRIT
The debate over the existence of a Higher Power or Order in the Universe is not a scientific debate. Believers have no reason to doubt or fear science any more than religion – especially in it’s rigid or fanatical forms. And real scientists know that proving the non-existence of such a higher intelligence is not within the scope of science.
For me, it comes down to a decision: to accept what we are able to perceive thru the senses, passing off the complexity and wonder of creation as an accident, or to wonder if there is something more to be known about our origins and purpose.
Under a Winter Sky
(While standing under a dormant acacia tree, I become aware of the dry, rattling sound of hundreds of empty seed pods dangling from the limbs.)
Once a full crown of leaves,
the habitat of oriole
and bluebird, is empty.
Now the seedpods,
suspended in choruses,
are transformed into
Nature’s rattles.
Like Ezekiel's dry bones,
death becomes life,
enlivened by the Wind.
Look heavenward
and see them:
mysterious texture,
sizzling in dry,
cold mountain air.
Withered pods grinning
and dancing in the wind,
the year's work of flower,
seed, and propagation ended!
Behold the ranks of lifeless pods,
breathing a song of praise.
A Song of Ancient Wood
The silence of autumn
is indescribable.
Stand along the road
looking onward:
The way is flanked
by ancient wood.
Trees - tortured
and twisted - are mute.
Keeping a vigil a
along the Via Dolorosa,
The most subtle music
comes forth:
Wind playing through leaves
as on harp strings.
Deep time grows
ever deeper - limitless.
One wing beat at a time,
the pulse goes on.
As in a cradle,
we are rocked to Infinity:
There we live, move
and have our being.
Amen.
Alleluia!
Meeting the New Year
(A reflection while standing in the woods on the last day of the year)
How do I sing this serene
last day of December?
The woods are silent
but for the tapping
of a woodpecker.
And a frog calls unseen
from somewhere dark.
My eyes gaze wide open
toward the misty eastern horizon.
White Mountain,
a pale-blue sky,
an almost-full moon;
Winter light is tinted light:
soft, gray, with a hint of rose.
Closer, young wild turkeys
flow over a grassy knoll.
Then disappear
into the late afternoon shadows.
The last day of this year!
Yet for all that,
just another day.
I attempt to place myself
in context, and imagine being
a part of all this.
Only the Zen poet’s words
suffice in the present moment:
“Looking at this scene,
limitless emotion,
But not one word.”
I take a sip of cold water
and start my journey home.
Shadow Play
(Watching the sun go down while looking east)
I like to watch
the mountain ridges,
especially near
the close of day.
The scene
is transformed
from a one-dimensional
range of hills,
Into a burst
of light and dark,
revealing contour,
texture, and depth.
A long while I could
watch this drama,
slowly unfolding
an ancient plot:
The Big Bang,
the rocks,
hurtling through space
at dizzying speeds,
this rock, turning
and changing day
into night,
a kind of shadow play.
Shadows creep
up the mountain,
leaving more
of our world
in darkness.
Color seems
more concentrated,
as the band
of rosy light narrows,
richer and more beguiling
as it vanishes
into the glorious night.
I Wait
(While meditating before the Tabernacle)
I kneel,
I listen,
I watch
the candle burning.
Awareness
is simplified in here:
Only the silence
of this place,
set back in the hills.
And, the sound
of the river, soft,
but clearly audible.
A river rushes
through my mind:
Sometimes chaotic,
but slowly today.
Thoughts arrive
and leave
in almost the same moment.
How absurd
to spend
all this time
in meditation!
So, why am I here?
Is it
to be seen
by others, or
to be distracted?
And yet,
I’m drawn
into this space.
What do I seek here?
Whom do I seek?
In the Presence
of my God,
I wait.
It feels awkward,
like something
is supposed to happen.
I begin to doze,
and remember
the Master’s words:
“Could you not watch
with me for an hour?”
But, I’m weary.
And, besides,
how do I know
you’re really here?
I remember
the hymn that says
you come
as One unknown.
Parched earth waits
for the rain,
then springs into life.
Perhaps that’s why
I’m here:
To kneel,
listen,
and watch.
Gratitude At Least
(While listening to a CD of chanting Tibetan nuns who live in exile in Nepal)
Senseless,
thoughtless -
In so many ways
I was less.
Clueless,
destination lost!
The path
led away
From the very things
I sought diligently
And obtained
only briefly.
Still I seek.
Still I wander.
While the life breath
of many
comes to an end,
I awake each day –
Without
a clear vision.
In search
of greater faith –
Or, chasing
more illusions?
As long as I live,
I am where
I am supposed to be.
The truth is, that
Only from where
I am,
Am I able
to take another step.
It’s almost as if
I had no choice.
It’s not
heaven’s fault.
Night comes
silently.
I close my eyes,
Not concerned
with rising.
Yet, at the dawn’s light,
Rise,
I must.
I’ll try another day,
Knowing
only one thing:
I will be thankful.
A Song of Winter Silence
(While sitting on a hill at the end of the day)
Frogs calling
in mid-winter.
Very strange,
some would say.
I peer
through naked trees,
The leaves having
long dried and fallen,
And I calmly look
toward heaven.
Seeing
blue sky,
dappled with
white clouds,
I realize
how much
these colors
settle
and comfort
my heart.
The sun dims,
and clouds
obscure the light.
I feel
a sudden coolness.
And, far away,
the river sings
a lonely song,
Cradled
in winter stillness.
A Little Evensong
(While walking along a mountain path at dusk)
Leaves cover
mountain path,
spongy and damp
from rain.
Last year’s brittle edge
of dryness softened,
my footsteps produce
a dull thud
in place of
the usual crackling noise.
Shadows dominate.
Yet the underbrush
is alive
with movement,
and the soft chirping
of mountain quail.
The sound moves
in waves,
as the flock
shifts nervously about.
Tonight,
Nature is minimalist,
playing her gentle airs
on delicate
and well-tuned
instruments.
With perfect balance
and subtle phrasing,
She is chanting
a little evensong.
Evening Meditation
You're drawing me
into the void!
Singing to me
a symphony
of silence!
As I fight
to choke back the tears,
There is
an almost undetected
sense of joy.
But, the conflict
within me
borders on the absurd.
Desire against desire,
spirit against flesh.
Both tumble unchecked
through my inner space,
Beautiful,
natural,
and complimentary.
Suppressing one,
freeing the other:
Is it really about that?
And, why
so late in the season,
While vision dims,
and life ebbs slowly away?
Perhaps I will surrender,
Only for lack of strength
to resist.
So hard was my heart,
grasping at forbidden fruits!
But, now,
as the sun's fire cools,
I am paralyzed
with uncertainty.
Anxious to continue
on the path of life,
not knowing the way,
and fearing death.
Easter Bunny! (I’m not in a hurry!)
The crest is shrouded in clouds,
Cool wind drifts across the meadow.
Yet, the late afternoon sun bids me return home:
From the foothills and from the silence.
But, wait -- what's that, under my car?
A closer look reveals a sleeping rabbit.
Never mind that it's Easter Sunday,
And, the rabbit is a young cottontail!
Do I disturb her afternoon rest?
(No better place to nap in comfort,
And out of sight of the hawks.)
So, I decide to wait a while.
I drink some cold water to quench my thirst.
What better excuse to wait it out?
Surely the bunny will wake up soon and move on.
But, no, she shifts a bit and continues to nap!
After more than half an hour I decide:
It's time to wake the rabbit at last - gently.
After all, I must be on my way.
Really, I'm not in such a rush anyway.
A God of My Understanding
Imagine the hills
rising around us,
thousands of trees,
shrubs, grass
and flowers.
Late spring
finds snow still
on the high ridges;
The river's pitch
has risen in tone.
Over this ground bass,
continuous melody,
now rising, now falling –
exquisite and varied:
As bird choruses
chant ancient tunes.
How can one not feel
alive and excited?
Breezes carry
our thoughts
in many directions.
And we feel refreshed
as we dream on.
Is this life real?,
we might ask.
If so, we are part
of a magnificent suite
of dances,
billions of years
in the composing.
I believe the Creator
to be all wise
and all powerful.
(“All” is a small word
with such huge consequences!)
And all I know is
that the God
of my understanding
is a God
that I hardly understand
at all.
Yet, this God
has reached out
to connect,
through creation
and a million voices,
even through sheer silence!
(As when I fall silent
before the Presence.)
The wonder of it is
that this God
meets me where I am,
not where I think I should be.
This God leads gently,
like the wind itself,
as I wander
in search of my self:
Not always
in a steady direction,
but, often round about
and chaotic, so it seems,
like swirling leaves
that dance wildly
until they find
their place of rest.
Love in the Wilderness
I don't remember what it was like
When my mother held me as an infant.
And, the memory of an impassioned embrace
Has faded with the passing years.
So, one day, I wondered what it is like
To be touched gently and loved by God.
Walking in the woods on a summer afternoon,
I found a place to sit in the shade:
The leafy arms of an oak tree
Sheltered me from the warm sunlight.
A breeze danced gently about my face
Refreshing as it cooled over perspiration.
The forest was fragrant with scent:
I breathed deeply to experience the moment.
Subtle blushing of pale summer flowers,
Wind sighing through the trees,
Voices of nuthatch, woodpecker and raven:
How the Spirit showered me with love that day!
As with a lover, I desired never to leave.
I wanted to feel this way for ever!
SONGS SUNG WHILE TRAVELING
Many of the following poems were written during my travels to St. John's Abbey near St. Cloud, Minnesota to attend a music conference. Verses written during other travels appear as well.
Presence
Aspens are beautiful trees!
Look sky-ward through the leaves,
If the wind is blowing:
The effect is like pointillism.
Blur your eyes and look:
How gentle the undulation!
Don't be surprised if you begin to dream.
The cold mountain air, scented with pine,
Will awaken your senses
To the beauty and patience,
To the unhurried and powerful
Presence of the Creator.
Economy
What a thrill!
The economy in God's world,
As God made it.
Stand in a forest on a breezy day:
You'll understand why it was a still small voice
That revealed the Lord to the prophet.
Yet the Creator's voice,
At times is more demonstrative -
In thunder, avalanche, volcanic eruption,
Earthquake, or a meteor strike.
So, we don't wonder at the Psalmist's words:
“Be still and know that I am God.”
To fear the Lord, then,
Is to surrender, to flow with, to ponder
God's awesome power.
Waiting For Trains
(While waiting for the midnight train in St. Cloud)
Slow down!
Where am I going?
How I hate waiting for trains!
It takes almost three days to get home.
What's the point?
This forces me to sit still,
Forces me to look within:
To find something to think about,
To find something to do.
Suddenly, I'm aware of pain:
My leg, my back, my arms.
Take a deep breath.
Put one foot in front of the other.
Don’t move any faster than that!
Who Was That Passenger?
(Thinking back about someone I talked to)
Who was that woman across the isle?
She happened to be sitting there, alone,
When I moved twice to escape drunks?
Then she talked of dancing.
Her friends were “crunchy” and liberal.
I thought - “crunchy”? (What's that?)
She recited a litany of musical interests:
Singing, hand bells, and dance.
Two things I remember well:
She spoke of being “present”
To the beauty of the mountains.
Then she spoke of just “being”...
It had kind of a Zen edge.
Genuine, unique and bright.
I felt a bit intimidated.
But, it was good to talk with someone.
I need people who challenge me!
Human Family in Transit
Our train is full, over-sold, so I heard!
What a swirling pool of humanity.
These people are civil after all
(Patience – in spite of the crowding).
Noise – first of all there is the noise!
There is no way to escape it:
Coughing, sneezing and passing gas!
This is our human family,
Compacted and focused in closed space
We peer into others' families:
Watch their games,
Listen to their banter,
Endure their crying babies
So, close your eyes my friend
And allow the sounds and smells
To mix – a kind of tossed salad
Reading helps for a while
But, in the end, you give up
Close your eyes and wait:
Only two more days!
Whitefish Sunset
Evening sky, rose hued:
Wind rushes down the mountain,
Snuffs out the last spark.
Sounding Poetry
Reading a poem:
Is it not like rendering the notes
of a musical score?
And, not merely the notes, but,
dynamics, tempo and other signs
If that be the case, then
No poem should ever read
the same way twice
I should delight in reading it
Repeatedly, as I would play
or listen to a piece of music.
The following poems were written while traveling thru other realms.
Arrival at the Church in Qingquan
Darkest night,
Deep and penetrating,
No moon
to cast
mysterious shadows.
Only dusty flecks
of cold starlight.
The sound
of waterfalls
is all around.
Narrow road winds
endlessly upward;
And, we come upon
an old church at last.
Inside,
an aging priest
kneels
on the concrete floor.
What prayers
was he uttering
in silence?
What visions
Have come
to this contemplative?
He points up the road
and mutters,
"Fifteen kilometers
to Fr. Ding's church!"
Already exhausted,
we continue on --
Our driver is determined
to get us there safely.
Occasionally we pause
as we ponder.
Which fork in the road leads on?
In the night,
the eerie sound of singing --
Almost wailing, actually:
human voices,
Karaoke music
slurred
in drunken phrases.
While engrossed in listening,
we pause again.
Another church:
we have arrived!
Our driver bids us good night,
And disappears
into the emptiness.
Five Desperate Haiku
(Traveling home from Ventura and feeling depressed following my divorce)
Point of no return:
So difficult to move on.
Oh, this cold gray sky!
Rows of barren trees,
Filled with perfect emptiness: